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Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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Alfred Lord Tennyson
Age: 83 †
Born: 1809
Born: August 6
Died: 1892
Died: October 6
Poet
Politician
Writer
Somersby
Lincolnshire
Alfred Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Alcibiades
A. Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson
Baron Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson Tennyson
Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson d'Eyncourt
Lord Tennyson Alfred
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Alfred
Lord Tennyson
Together
Round
Nectar
Live
Rounds
Bolts
Like
Gods
Lightly
World
Golden
Careless
Clouds
Beside
Mankind
Valleys
Hurled
Lying
Houses
Gleaming
House
Hills
Curled

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I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.
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Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?
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I waited for the train at Coventry I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this.
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After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
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Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
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I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
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O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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All things human change.
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That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
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O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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Tho' much is taken, much abides.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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The last great Englishman is low.
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Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
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Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
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Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die
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O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
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There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
Alfred Lord Tennyson